


Till The End Of Our Days

by TheWhiteSeeD



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Assassination, Child Loss, Family Drama, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Rinoa Heartilly/Squall Leonhart, Other, Post-Game(s), Sexual Content, Single Parents, Tragedy, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-08 03:15:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20292775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWhiteSeeD/pseuds/TheWhiteSeeD
Summary: Estranged from his wife and mourning the loss of his son, Squall is left devastated when tragedy strikes again.A post-war mistake changes Seifer's life in the most unexpected of ways.And Selphie struggles to accept Irvine's most closely guarded secret in the wake of a horrific accusation.





	Till The End Of Our Days

The crowd outside the Palace is massive. A hundred-thousand souls have gathered before the gates beneath balloon arches and banners and brightly colored flags in anticipation of good news. Esthar's favorite President, reelected for the fifth (or maybe the sixth) time – who knows anymore because no one's keeping track – or finally defeated after twenty-five long years as Esthar's darling.

There is an air of celebration as the sun goes down. There will be no news for at least two hours, and this time, Loire's reelection is not a guarantee. His loyal fans are partying anyway and breaking local custom by drinking spirits in the street. Many are dressed like him. As it always is on election night.

The shooter gathers her skirt of her traditional Estharian robe and kneels to assemble her weapon. She is calm and methodical. Prepared for the consequences if she must shoot. She is also prepared for what will happen if she doesn't.

"Are you in position?

The shooter does not answer right away. She takes a deep breath and straightens her long auburn locks, checks the time, and listens to the laughter of the crowd.

"Operative. Answer me."

She slides the bolt back on her custom Galbadian sniper rifle and dials in the scope. The podium is crystal clear through the lens and there's nothing in the way to obstruct her view. When the time comes, there will be no issues.

"Answer me."

She breathes in. Out. Turns her microphone back on.

"I'm ready."

"How do I look, Son?"

Squall slides off the corner of his father's desk and looks the man up and down. Laguna looks the same as he does every other day of the week. Casual button-down in a garish color. Cargo pants. Those Hyneforsaken sandals Squall wouldn't mind burning in the Palace furnace downstairs. Suggesting he wear a suit like a professional is an exercise in futility and Squall won't waste his breath trying to convince Laguna otherwise.

"Like a moron," Squall says. He smiles to soften the blow. "As usual."

Laguna laughs but he's nervous. This has been a tough election cycle. Opening the borders five years ago seemed like the best thing for the country and the for the world. For a time, the open borders benefited everyone. The sharing of technology and trade agreements. Communication between world leaders.

Peace between nations has more or less been achieved everywhere but Timber, where the natives continue to fight with Galbadia over independence and autonomy.

Squall prefers not to think of Timber. That is a subject best left alone.

The older generation of Estharians miss the old ways. They resent the bustle of tourists in their street, and the drifters who have moved in seeking a better life but bringing with them no skill-set or motivation to do much but beg in the streets and cause trouble. They are upset about the rise in vandalism, and about the hedonism, the drugs and alcohol brought in by the pampered children of billionaires who see the city as an exotic party destination. They hate that the young people have hung up their traditional robes and adopted western styles. Loose hair and trucker caps. Shorts and tank tops. They hate it.

The older generation never liked this progressiveness in their long-time president, or so they're saying now, and they blame Laguna for the rising crime, for the influx of foreigners in their streets, for the rapidly changing culture. Laguna's opponent, Shamus Endole has used this to his advantage to win support and votes. He sells the old ways to the old folks who never minded the xenophobia and isolation.

Squall won't say it to his father's face, but he stands a good chance of losing tonight. They're so close in the polls it's impossible to call it.

"Maybe I should drop out of the running," Laguna says. "Another term – I'm not sure if I've got it in me to do it anymore."

Squall stays quiet. His father paces the room, a slight limp causing an uneven trek across the floor. He will not tell Laguna what to do. Laguna won't listen anyhow.

"You and me, we could go on an adventure together," Laguna says. "Travel the world, see the sights, meet interesting people – what do you say?"

"I'd say you're full of it," Squall says. "And I have work. Bills to pay."

"You know I can help you with that," Laguna says.

"You've already done enough," Squall says. "I can't ask for more."

"You didn't ask," Laguna says. "I offered."

"Thanks, but I've got it covered."

He doesn't. Long term medical care costs a fortune. It's bleeding him dry. Thousands of Gil a week, and for what?

Squall can't and won't ask for more.

The door of Laguna's office opens and a young girl, blond and wild, bursts inside, dragging Seifer by the wrist. The ends of her hair have been dyed obscene pink and there's a sparkly tiara cocked sideways on her head.

"Hurry up, daddy," the girl, Nevaeh, says and tugs Seifer's wrist harder. "I wanna say good luck to Grandpa."

Seifer looks unusually harassed. Squall can't blame him. There is a lot riding on his shoulders today.

There's a lot riding on Seifer period. Ever since some girl Seifer fucked when he was eighteen dumped a six-month-old baby on his doorstep in a car seat with a note pinned to her blanket, Seifer's life has wildly different than anyone could have imagined. He is responsible for someone else now. He can't afford to be a fuck up anymore.

Raising a child by himself was never something Squall pictured a man like Seifer committing to, or being good at. He will never be Father of the Year, but he does his best.

Squall suspects Nevaeh is the only thing Seifer has ever loved in his whole life. In his eyes, she can do no wrong. She could set the house on fire and he would happily watch it burn. She could murder someone and Seifer would praise her technique.

There are many things he can say about Seifer, most of them bad, but he has no doubt, Nevaeh gets the best parts of him, and if there is anything soft or caring in him, he saves it all for her.

Squall understands. He would give his own life if it meant his son got a second chance to live.

The girl lets go of Seifer's wrist and flings herself at Laguna. Her arms go around his legs and the worry drains from his face. He picks her up and grins.

"Hey, Princess," he says. "I like your hair."

"I did it with markers!" she says. "Daddy said I could."

Squall chokes on a laugh and shoots Seifer a glance.

"Well, it looks very pretty," Laguna says diplomatically. "You ready to party?"

"Yup!" she says. "I like that dip with the stuff in it."

"Well, you are in luck," Laguna says. "We have three kinds of dip with stuff in it."

Seifer, who has not said a word since he entered the room, clears his throat. He's cleaned up and professional in a dark suit and shiny shoes. It's an intimidating look on him. He could be a rich businessman or a politician, but he radiates danger and authority, and this is why he's been chosen to head up security for tonight's event. His very presence says it's unwise to fuck with Laguna Loire, and should there be an incident, Seifer will prove it.

Squall can't say they're friends, but they're no longer enemies. Time has softened their aggressive tendencies toward one another and the aggression has been replaced by a mutual respect. They understand one another, they lived through similar horrors, got the same sort of start in life, a pair of child soldiers on opposite ends of the personality spectrum and yet very much the same. Seifer is his mirror and he is Seifer's. It's always been that way.

Having children around the same age helps, though Squall's son, Julian, will never be able to go to parties or know companionship or any of life's joys or perils. He will never call Squall daddy or learn to ride a bike. He will never grow to be a man or fall in love or have kids or a career of his own. He is alive, technically, but he will never breathe on his own or open his eyes again.

Best not to think of that, either.

"How's it looking out there?" Squall asks.

"We're good to go," Seifer says. "As soon as the numbers come in."

"Your hair is pretty," Nevaeh says to Laguna. "You should make all the white parts pink."

"If I win tonight, I'll let you go crazy," Laguna promises. "How about that?"

"Swear?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

Squall's stomach twists. He's always hated that phrase.

Strange, how out of all of Laguna's butchered sayings, this is the one he gets right.

Seifer doesn't know where things go wrong. One moment, they're on stage waiting for the final numbers to come in – it's a photo finish to be sure – and the next it feels like someone has punched him in the shoulder and Laguna Loire is on the ground.

The crowd is still cheering his victory, it happened too fast for anyone to grasp that the crack they heard was not fireworks. Seifer drops to a knee beside the President, his face already too pale and his eyes empty and blank and fixed on the night sky above.

It was a perfectly placed shot. Must've stopped Laguna's heart in an instant. Almost no blood.

Squall kneels beside his father. His head hangs. He knows what Seifer knows.

Laguna Loire is dead. Potions and Phoenix Downs can't restart an exploded heart. There is nothing either of them can do.

Seifer thinks not of Squall or Laguna but of his daughter.

His heartbeat throbs in his ears and his fingertips. Something warm trickles down his back. Sweat, he thinks. The crowd's cheers turn to screams.

Nevaeh is safe inside with Ward's wife and children. She is safe. He's seen to that. She wanted to be on this stage tonight with him and with Laguna, who has adopted her as his own grandchild, but Seifer chose to risk her wrath for her own safety. He is glad he did.

She is the light of his life, as corny as it sounds. There has never been anyone he loves more than he loves her. To think, he almost dropped her off at an orphanage for someone else to take care of. To think her mother didn't want to keep something so incredible and beautiful and innocent.

Seifer understood what that felt like.

He saw himself in that screaming, hungry, soiled little bundle. A kid no one wanted, abandoned and unloved. Just like him.

She is an Almasy, through and through, and he knew it the second he held her in his arms. He never wanted to be anyone's father, but now he can't imagine his life without her. He would die if something happened to her. He would happily murder anyone who dared hurt her.

Squall leans down and presses his forehead to Laguna's. Fingers curl into Laguna's hair.

A steady beat begins in the back of his shoulder. A grinding when he moves.

His daughter is safe.

He needs to focus.

Squall is clutching his father's limp hand and his eyes are as far away and empty as Laguna's. Seifer checks Squall over for any sign of injury, patting along his arms and his back and his chest but he finds no evidence that Squall has been hit.

Seifer has a choice to make. Stay with Squall in case he is also a target, or take a chance and see if he can locate the shooter.

He looks over his shoulder at the buildings behind him. His team checked all of them and then locked them down prior to the event. No one in, no one out. Laguna's team double checked behind him and gave the all clear.

There are two more shots. Seifer throws Squall to the ground and pins him there. A bullet strikes the stage an inch from Seifer's head.

Squall does not fight it. He is limp beneath Seifer and Seifer thinks Squall has been shot, he reacted too late, he doesn't know where the other bullet went, but he can feel Squall's heart throbbing, he can feel the rise and fall of his chest.

"You hit, Leonhart?"

"No," Squall says. "Get off me. Need to get everybody out of here."

He is right. They need to minimize the casualties.

Seifer rises to his knees. He gives the order over his radio.

There are no more shots.

"Get inside, Leonhart," Seifer says.

Squall shakes his head.

"Not without him. I'm not leaving him out here."

Laguna is dead. It doesn't matter if they leave his body here or they take him inside. It would be smart to leave him. His position could potentially give them the shooter's location, but the shooter is probably long gone.

Squall scoops Laguna's lifeless form up off the ground and throws him over his shoulder. Seifer turns and something catches his eye.

A cowboy hat. A long leather duster, matching chaps.

And a long, auburn ponytail.

Walking away.

There are several working snipers who are really fucking good at what they do, but there is only one who dresses like that.

He's Laguna's guest.

Son of a _bitch_.

Selphie leaves the victory party just minutes before the final numbers are in. Irvine hasn't showed up yet, which is not a surprise – he's probably flirting with some girl on the housekeeping staff, and Selphie forgot her camera in her room.

In a hurry, she dashes through the hall of the guest wing, unsure of where her room is. She's positive she's in the right place, but nothing looks familiar. Her room is across from a pretty indoor atrium that's full of birds and tropical plants, but she doesn't see anything like that here.

She turns down another corridor, and another, afraid she's going to miss Laguna's big moment. She wants pictures and video for her blog, being a lifetime fan of the soldier turned journalist turned actor turned president. It would be a crying shame if she failed to get even one picture of Laguna's victory pose.

A pair of men in suits stop her in her tracks.

"Ma'am, you can't be in here."

"I'm a guest," she says hotly. "And a SeeD and I happen to be friends with Laguna's son."

"Ma'am, we'll need you to come with us."

"Ask him!" she cries. "Me and Squall killed monsters and sorceresses together back in the day. Look it up. I'm Selphie Tilmitt, and Laguna's going to be super mad if you don't leave me alone."

"Ma'am."

Selphie doesn't have time for this. They're not impressed by her accomplishments. She's just going to have to resort manipulation.

She turns on the tears. A sniffle at first, and then a flood. She babbles some nonsense at them and follows up with mentions of female biology and bleeding and tampons and they both get nervous.

Serves them right. If men weren't so squeamish about the inner workings of the female reproductive system, Selphie couldn't so easily use it as a weapon against them.

The let her go and she dashes off, her tears drying already. She finds the atrium and skids to a halt in front of her door and flings it open. She takes too steps inside and finds Irvine standing in the middle of the room, staring at himself in the mirror. His hat and coat are on the bed. His chaps on the floor.

His hair is down and Selphie takes a second to admire the color. She's always envied how pretty it is. Like autumn leaves. 

Something is wrong here. Selphie blinks until what Irvine is wearing sinks in.

Black lace panties, bikini cut. A matching garter belt attached to fishnet stockings. The push-up bra is black lace too, and he's wearing make-up. Cherry red lipstick. Mascara.

Startled, he turns around and Selphie notices there's no sign of his dick in those panties.

"Irvie? What are you doing?"

He's blushing furiously. He won't even look at her. Isn't even trying to explain.

Did he think maybe she'd think this was fun and kinky? Maybe something to spice up their relationship? Because right now, nothing about this is fun or kinky or spicy, it's just sad and weird and kind of scary because he's not smiling or saying anything at all.

If he'd given her some warning, she might be into it. Who knew? It could be fun, but it's way more fun when it's her idea and it's never occurred to her to dress him up as a stripper.

"Why are you wearing that?"

Irvine sits on the bed and picks up his hat. He tugs on the brim and covers his face with it. He makes a strange sound like he's crying and laughing at the same time.

"I didn't want you to find out like this, darlin."

"Find out what?"

He lowers the hat. Lowers his eyes. Long mascaraed lashes against lightly freckled skin.

"Sit," he says. "Please. We need to talk."


End file.
